She was a poor weak creature, and so she looked with
her pale insignificant face and dull eyes, a wisp
of loose hair lying damp on her forehead. She
seemed indeed too weak a thing to stand even for a
moment in the way of what must be done this night,
and ’twas almost irritating to be stopped by
her.

“Nay,” said my Lady Dunstanwolde, her
beautiful brow knitting as she looked at her.
“Go to your chamber, Anne, and to sleep.
I must do my work, and finish to-night what I have
begun.”

“But—­but—­” Anne
stammered, dominated again, and made afraid, as she
ever was, by this strong nature, “in this work
you must finish—­is there not something
I could do to—­aid you—­even in
some small and poor way. Is there—­naught?”

“Naught,” answered Clorinda, her form
drawn to its great full height, her lustrous eyes
darkening. “What should there be that you
could understand?”

“Not some small thing—­not some poor
thing?” Anne said, her fingers nervously twisting
each other, so borne down was she by her awful timorousness,
for awful it was indeed when she saw clouds gather
on her sister’s brow. “I have so
loved you, sister—­I have so loved you that
my mind is quickened somehow at times, and I can understand
more than would be thought—­when I hope
to serve you. Once you said—­once you
said—­”

She knew not then nor ever afterwards how it came
to pass that in that moment she found herself swept
into her sister’s white arms and strained against
her breast, wherein she felt the wild heart bounding;
nor could she, not being given to subtle reasoning,
have comprehended the almost fierce kiss on her cheek
nor the hot drops that wet it.

“I said that I believed that if you saw me commit
murder,” Clorinda cried, “you would love
me still, and be my friend and comforter.”

“I would, I would!” cried Anne.

“And I believe your word, poor, faithful soul—­I
do believe it,” my lady said, and kissed her
hard again, but the next instant set her free and
laughed. “But you will not be put to the
test,” she said, “for I have done none.
And in two days’ time my Gerald will be here,
and I shall be safe—­saved and happy for
evermore—­for evermore. There, leave
me! I would be alone and end my work.”

And she went back to her table and sat beside it,
taking her pen to write, and Anne knew that she dare
say no more, and turning, went slowly from the room,
seeing for her last sight as she passed through the
doorway, the erect and splendid figure at its task,
the light from the candelabras shining upon the rubies
round the snow-white neck and wreathed about the tower
of raven hair like lines of crimson.